


Let My Love Open the Door

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Baz is not a vampire in this fic, Carry On Quarantine, Fluff, Fluffy Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Pining Simon Snow, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Pride and Prejudice film references, Slow Burn, awkward boys, erotic hand holding, established Agatha and Baz friendship, film discourse, food delivery, gratuitous Spinal Tap mentions, jock!Agatha, martial arts instructor!/delivery boy!Simon, non magical au, physEd teacher!Agatha, pride and prejudice 2005 hand touch, pub food, quarantine fic, teacher!Baz, there are a fair number of films mentioned, wingman Agatha, written for the quarantine round robin prompt food delivery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23590015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: Baz is a teacher quarantined at home and Simon is doing temp work delivering food for The Girl and the Goat, a local pub. A craving for a burger leads to Baz ordering from the pub, followed by weeks of mutual pining, the slow burn of a developing relationship thwarted by the physical constraints of social distancing, and a refrigerator full of pub food. Movie nights, exasperated friends, lots of texts, way too much food, and multiple awkward encounters. Written for the Carry On Quarantine prompt "food delivery."
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 129
Kudos: 695
Collections: Carry On Collection - Quarantine Edition





	Let My Love Open the Door

**Author's Note:**

> this turned into a much longer fic than expected (story of my life lately). My thanks to BasicBathsheba and fight-surrender for their beta reads!  
> and to xivz for coming up with the idea of quarantine prompts!

**Let My Love Open the Door**

**Baz**

I close my laptop and drop my head down onto it. I’m knackered. The metal feels cool against my forehead. I roll my face from side to side, relishing the smooth chill of it against my cheeks. And then I remember. 

Fuck, now I have to disinfect the damn thing. 

I’m done. Done for the day but also so _done_ with this.

How can I be expected to effectively teach students—Sixth Form students at that—from a computer terminal? I’m almost three weeks into this, but their looming A Levels and GSCE’s are still on schedule for May. 

That’s less than two months away. Five weeks and three days, to be exact. 

Thank fuck it’s Friday. I’ll at least have two days to prepare next week’s frightfully inadequate lesson plan. 

I grab a disinfecting wipe from the canister and methodically wipe down my laptop. I’m not sick—not a cough, not a sniffle—but I’ve bought into this not touching my face directive and I shouldn’t be smearing my germs on random surfaces. For all I know I could be carrying this thing. One of the asymptomatic Typhoid Marys, spreading it far and wide. 

Not that there’s anyone to spread it to, seeing as I’m on my own here, but I wipe the laptop down anyway, unnerved by the whole idea of it. 

I’ve washed my hands more in the past month than I have in my entire life. I spent the first day at home wiping down every surface, laundering the bedding, mopping the floors. My house went from having a pleasant, woodsy scent to the overwhelming stench of bleach instead. 

It gave me such a headache that I had to open the windows and damn near froze. Bloody coldest March we’ve had in years. April’s not proving to be much better. 

My mobile buzzes. I should have left it in the bedroom but I’ve become painfully attached to it. 

If I’m not planning out curriculum, video conferencing with my class, answering frantic emails from parents, students, the other teachers at my school, or compulsively cleaning and reorganizing my house, then I’m moodily scrolling through Twitter and Instagram and ratcheting up my anxiety. 

I should delete my social media. 

My mobile buzzes again. 

I glance at my watch. It’s six o’clock. 

Bound to be Wellbelove. 

_**Wellbelove:** are you done yet?_

_**Wellbelove** : Baz!!_

_**Wellbelove:** you can’t still be doing classwork it’s after 5_

_**Wellbelove:** BAAAAZZZZ_

_**Me:** Give it a rest, Wellbelove. Some of us are actually working from home._

_**Wellbelove:** I am working, you poncy bastard I’m obviously far more efficient than you. _

_**Me:** Look, some of us can’t just post our morning exercise routine and somehow have that count as work._

_**Wellbelove:** Why are we friends again? Can you remind me why I put up with this slander from you?_

_**Me:** Because of my sparkling wit and undeniable charm._

_**Wellbelove:** more like your fashion sense and propensity to pick up the bill when we eat out. Neither of which are in evidence at the moment so I may have to rethink my devotion to you_

_**Me:** Still, I’m indispensable._

_**Wellbelove:** then buy me dinner. what are we watching tonight?_

This all started at the end of that first week, when Agatha couldn’t concentrate on the book she was trying to read and I’d reached the pulling-my-hair-out state of lesson planning. She suggested we watch a film together—FaceTiming while our Netflix accounts played in sync. 

We’ve done that almost every night since. Dinner and a movie, separately, from a distance. 

We spend almost as much time arguing over what to watch as we do watching, but that’s just how we are. I’ve known Agatha Wellbelove since we were toddlers at the same crèche when our parents were at uni. Same primary school, same secondary school. 

We drifted apart during our uni years, with Agatha at Brighton for phys Ed and Oxford to read for English Language and Literature for me. 

It was some bizarre twist of fate that we were both hired to teach at the same secondary school in Chilham. She was the last person I expected to see on my orientation day. 

We picked up where we left off, latching onto each other as we navigated our first real world experience after uni. 

It’s been three years now and I think the past three weeks have been the longest stretch we’ve gone without seeing each other since we moved here.

She’s self-centered, brutally straight-forward, horribly short-tempered, dreadfully impatient, and devastatingly gorgeous. 

A perfect match for me if I wasn’t so irrevocably gay. 

And if she wasn’t . . . well _, categorically uninterested in me in that way_ is probably the best way to phrase it. 

But she’s my best friend and I know it hasn’t been all that long but fuck, I miss her. 

**_Wellbelove:_ ** _WHAT ARE WE WATCHING BAZ ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION_

She’d be kicking me in the shin by now, if she were here. Maybe I don’t miss her quite that much.

Ugh, it’s my night to choose. I don’t know what I want to watch. Something soothing, not one of those action films or plucky sports dramas she likes so much. I actually like _Bend it Like Beckham_ but not those sappy American ones she’s inflicted on me.

I need something familiar. Comforting.

_**Me:** Pride and Prejudice._

_**Wellbelove:** 2005\. Kiera Knightley. I will accept no substitutes._

_**Me:** The 1995 version is superior._

_**Wellbelove:** Colin Firth doesn’t look like that anymore Baz. Let it go. _

I start to type _“Keira Knightley doesn’t either_ ” but fucking hell she does still look the same. 

_**Wellbelove:** and you owe me dinner_

_**Me:** 2005 AND dinner? You are greedy and demanding, Wellbelove. I’ll agree to Knightley. Make your own dinner. _

_**Wellbelove:** I want a burger I’m ordering out since you’re being a berk and won’t send me food_

Fuck. I’m craving a burger now too. 

I don’t even want to think about cooking anything. I’m so sick of pasta, even though I’ve tried to make it a different way each time, with my dwindling pantry supplies. And much as I love the curry place down the road I can’t eat it every day. 

I used to think I could. I used to say I’d be happy eating tikka masala every day for the rest of my life, but I was mistaken. 

And no more chippies. I can’t do another chippy. 

_**Me:** Who’s delivering burgers? Please tell me you aren’t getting McDonald’s._

_**Wellbelove:** why would I get McDonald’s when I can get a lamb burger from The Girl and The Goat?_

_**Me:** they’re not still open?_

_**Wellbelove:** of course they’re still open you stupid git._

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought to check. Why I assumed the pubs would close down, when they all have kitchens and food service, just like the chippies and fast food places. 

_**Me:** why didn’t you bother telling me, you hag?_

_**Wellbelove:** You are a grown man Hunter gatherer type you should be able to forage for your own food _

I want one of those burgers. We don’t go there all that often but The Girl and The Goat has some of the best burgers in town. Fucking hell, I’m salivating at the thought of it. 

_**Me:** Text when you’ve got dinner and we’ll start the movie_

_**Wellbelove:** you’re ordering from The Goat aren’t you you hypocrite and not even paying for mine_

I close the messenger app to look up The Girl and The Goat online. I scan the menu and then ring them up. 

The warm, cheerful voice on the line assures me the order will be delivered to my door within a half hour. I give my mobile number so the driver can text when he arrives. 

“Just be looking for the text, love,” the woman’s warm voice continues. “Simon will leave everything at your door, no need to open up until he’s gone. I know how wary people are these days so we’re trying to make it easy.”

A little over a half hour later my mobile buzzes with a message from an unknown number. 

_**Unknown number:** Food’s here! _

_**Unknown number:** I’ll ring when it’s on your doorstep_

The doorbell chimes and I peek at the doorway video display only to startle at the huge grinning face looming on the screen. I push the audio button. 

“Yes?”

“Hullo! I’m Simon. I’ve got your order from The Goat. Lamb burger and chips.” He holds up a gloved hand carrying a bag. “I’ll just leave it right here for you.” I get a brief glimpse of a broad back clad in a brown leather jacket as he bends down, before he’s back to grinning at the camera again. “Thanks for ordering from The Goat. We appreciate the business. If you text me back you’ll get a discount for next time!” 

“Text you back what?”

He leans in closer and shrugs. “Whatever.” 

He’s got brilliant blue eyes. A scattering of freckles dotted across his face. 

“Um, right, ok then. Thanks.”

He waves and then he’s out of sight again. 

I move to the front window and twitch aside the blinds to watch him get in a blue car with “ _The Girl and The Goat”_ displayed across the door in white lettering. 

I wait until the car is long gone before opening the door, gloves on, carrying the parcel of food as if it’s radioactive until I reach the kitchen, where I can dispose of the bag and transfer the food to my own dishes.

It’s likely overkill, I know, but I find being wary and methodical helps calm me. 

I settle down in front of the television with my meal and my mobile, ready to message Agatha, when I see the text from the unknown number again. 

I’d not say no to a discount. I click on it to text back. What exactly does one text to an attractive delivery man?

I shake my head. He’s just the delivery man, it’s irrelevant if he’s attractive or not. 

My finger is still hovering over my mobile. I’m having an existential crisis over what to text a delivery man so I can get a discount on a pub meal. These are the depths that I have sunk to with this self-quarantine.

It would help if he were ordinary looking. It really would. 

**_Me to unknown number:_ ** _Whatever_

I hit send before I think too hard about how unoriginal and trite a response that was. 

My mobile pings back a moment later.

_**Unknown number:** 15% percent off the next order. Just say Simon said when you call it in! :) _

* * *

**Simon**

This is the third order I’ve delivered to Baz this week. 

I recognized his name. Penny’s mentioned him before. Her mother was right chuffed to get him for the school, Oxford grad and all. Penny says he’s a bit of a prick but she likes him well enough and he’s dead popular with the kids. 

Penny likes anyone who’ll have a jaw about books and language and vowel shifts of the Sixteenth Century or some such rot. 

That kind of thing makes her happy. She gets this gleam in her eye, like she does when we go to that book shop in Canterbury--the Chaucer one. It’s musty and crowded, twisty and cramped, filled floor to ceiling with all sorts of books. She could talk to the owner for hours and I swear she never leaves without a stack of books for herself. 

I like it well enough, but it’s not how I’d prefer to spend a day off. Suits Penny though and it’s always good to spend time with her, even if it’s just following her around with an armful of her selections. We don’t get much time together, not since we both started working.

She teaches all day and most of my work starts after school hours, so it’s hard to find time other than the weekends. 

But I like being my own boss. Making my own hours. Not being at someone else’s beck and call. Had enough of that at school. 

It’s a bit shit now though, with all this pandemic business. 

Had to close the studio down. Not too keen on running group martial arts classes or hosting kids birthday parties with all this going on. Not safe for anyone. 

It’s a bit of a wrench though. I still go every morning, to do my forms, keep up on my weapons practice and feel like I’ve still got some sort of routine. 

Don’t know what I’d do if Ebb wasn’t the one leasing the space to me. She put my rent on hold when I shut down, knew I wouldn’t be able to make the payments otherwise, what with no income for fuck knows how long. That’s why I offered to work at the pub, now that the studio’s closed. Thought I’d make it up to her by helping out a bit, making the deliveries, going round to the farms to do the pickups. Ebb makes sure I’m fed and she insists on paying me, even though I told her she didn’t need to. She’s a good one, Ebb is. 

Says I deserve hazard pay, seeing as I’m the one on the road. But it’s not as if I even see anyone, let alone interact with any of the customers. I text from the car, ring the bell, and then leave the food on the doorstep. I hardly talk to anyone but her when I’m working. 

And Baz. 

It’s not much. Just a few words through that hi tech camera thing he’s got. It’s not much but it’s something. 

I’m finding myself looking forward to it, talking to him, even if it’s just for a minute. He’s getting to be quite the regular now and I’ve got no complaints. Tips well and he’s got a nice voice. Kind of a warm baritone. I like it. 

He was at the window again, as I was leaving. Saw the blinds shift a bit as I ran back to the car. He’s done that before but I’ve never managed to get a glimpse of him. 

I wonder what he looks like.   
  


* * *

**Baz**

I check the time. Should be any minute now. 

My mobile pings. 

_**Unknown number:** Food’s here. Just about to ring the bell._

I’m at the door before the bell even rings. I don’t need to turn on the monitor but I do it anyway, just as the doorbell chimes. It’s not as if I get to see many people these days. It’s quite pleasant to see a human face.

Other than Wellbelove’s face, that is. Or my students. Or Headmistress Bunce’s. 

Fine. I’ll admit it. It’s pleasant to see _this particular face_.

It’s a nice face. 

Expressive.

Constellations of freckles and moles set against tawny skin. 

A chiseled jawline, a dimple on the left side, bright blue eyes that crinkle in the corners when he smiles. 

_Fuck._

“Hullo!” Simon waves from the screen. “I’ve got your food!”

I press the speaker. “Thanks.” 

“Enjoy the food and don’t forget to say ‘ _Simon said’_ for a discount on your next order!”

“I don’t have to text you back to qualify this time?”

He grins. “Nah, you’ve ordered enough times this week alone that I’ll let you off.” 

Fuck. How many times have I ordered from The Goat? “As long as you’re sure. I don’t want to take advantage if there are rules to be followed.”

His grin gets even wider, dimple on full display. “Just this once. You’ll have to come up with something clever next time though.”

And then the bloody wanker _winks_ just before he runs off to his car. 

I’m just calming down from that sight when Agatha texts me.

 _ **Wellbelove:** curry or chippy? Or is it another Simon special _😉

_**Me:** I suppose you think you’re being amusing?_

_**Wellbelove:** Definitely ordered from The Goat again didn’t you _

_**Wellbelove:** Is it the excellent food or the fit delivery boy that’s got your attention?_

I turn television on and start scrolling through my watch list. I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. 

_**Wellbelove:** what are we watching tonight? please don’t make me watch another Hugh Grant movie I will literally lose my will to live if you do I can only take so much I swear if you make me watch Paddington I will find a way to end you_

_**Me:** Paddington was on the docket for tonight. _

It wasn’t but there’s no reason to let Wellbelove know that. This is more entertaining. 

_**Wellbelove:** omg you wanker no I will watch any sappy shit but please not that_

_**Me:** Splendid. A Room with a View it is._

_**Wellbelove:** omg could you be any more predictable? I thought you’d reached peak Baz when you made me watch Maurice this has the same bloody cast you little shit it’s the Rupert Graves thing isn’t it? _

_**Me:** This is classic cinema._

_**Wellbelove: i** t’s so fucking you scenic Tuscan vistas the piazzas and museums of Florence people blathering on about art and philosophy and aesthetics and unfairly handsome blokes with their dangly bits out._

_**Me:** Slander, every bit of that. And past time for a remedial session in the appropriate use of punctuation, Wellbelove._

_**Wellbelove:** it’s the swoopy hair you have a thing for swoopy hair. _

_**Wellbelove:** you do know Julian Sands is simply a pale knock-off of Jason Isaacs right? a sunnier version of Lucius Malfoy _

_**Wellbelove:** no one cares about punctuation in a text Baz _

_**Me:** I care. You do realize that Isaacs is the knock off? Sands was around first. _

_**Wellbelove:**_ _Don’t see him making an appearance in 8 blockbusters so who’s really got the upper hand here Baz?_

I start to furiously tap at the screen but click out of messages to call her instead, because I will not tolerate these slurs. I practically shout when she picks up. “Jason Isaacs isn’t even a natural blond!”

There’s a moment of silence on the line and then a cough. A distinctly male cough. And then a voice, a voice that’s become excruciatingly familiar in the past two weeks. “Not quite what I was expecting.”

I stare at my mobile. Simon’s face is grinning up at me from the screen. 

Fuck. _Fuck._ How the fuck did I dial Simon when I meant to call Agatha? 

Not even dial. I fucking _FaceTimed him._

I’m frozen in horror, staring at my screen. Unbelievably, Simon keeps talking. “Didn’t know he wasn’t actually blond, though, so I’ll give you points for that. Bit of a handsome devil, isn’t he?” 

That bloody dimple of his is on full display. 

I’m about ready to self-immolate, here on my sofa, when he starts talking again. “Definitely . . . clever of you . . . surprising me with a video chat.” 

“Ah. Er. I was . . . sorry, not quite so clever of me, really. I was calling . . . well, I meant to call my friend. . . and well.” I'm simply floundering. I wish I _could_ go up in flames. It would be infinitely less painful than this. 

He somehow keeps smiling. “It’s all right. I know how it goes, chatting with so many people these days, it’s hard to keep the conversations straight.” 

A creeping realization comes over me. He knew it was me. How the devil did he know it was me? 

“How did you know it was me?” Fucking hell. The words are out of my mouth and there is no bloody way I can take them back now. 

“Oh . . . um . . . I’ve got your number saved in my contacts. Thought it’d make it easier, seeing as . . . since you’re one of our more consistent customers now.” His eyes dart away from the camera for a second and I’d swear there’s a hint of a flush on his face. 

There’s warmth spreading up from my stomach at his words, all the way through my chest. _In his contacts._ I like the sound of that more than I care to admit. 

“Ah. Well, sorry again. Didn’t mean to do that. Sorry for the bother.” Christ, I’m lame. I sound a complete tit. Have I ever had a conversation before? With an actual human being that’s not Wellbelove? 

His smile softens and I can feel the heat creep into my cheeks. Splendid. Just what I need, to be blushing when some random man I’ve essentially butt-dialed smiles at me. I’m pathetic. Truly. Utterly tragic. 

I think we’re both blushing.

“Don’t worry about it. Nice to put a face to the name.” His own face is so close to his mobile that I could probably count his freckles if I wanted to. 

I want to. 

I clear my throat. “Well, thanks for being so understanding. Won’t happen again.” And then because I am an absolute disaster of a human being, I hurriedly say “Good night” and end the call, because I’ve just realized _he can see me staring at him because I fucking FaceTimed him._

Bloody hell. He’s now painfully aware that I’m not simply an imbecile, but a rude one at that. 

There are three texts from Agatha but I can’t be bothered to answer her right now. I drop my head against the sofa and close my eyes. That was mortifying. 

And strangely exhilarating. 

I pick up my mobile again and carefully tap the screen. 

He’s in my contacts now, too.

Christ, I’ve got it bad. 

* * *

**Simon**

I’m pretty sure Baz and Agatha are just friends. She doesn’t talk about him like a boyfriend. Not that I’d know how she talks about a boyfriend, mind you, but it just doesn’t have that feel somehow. 

I’ve known her for a while, ever since she started taking my evening sparring class last year. She stays after sometimes, to get my advice on how she can incorporate my drills into the phys ed classes she teaches at the school. 

I did a workshop for her Sixth Form girls last year, a two week program to give them some pointers before they all went off to uni. Self-defense, how to square off against a larger opponent, aim for the weak spots. Was all set to do it again this year. 

_Was._

It’s all right though. I know it’s a bit rough now, but we’ll get past this. And helping out at The Goat is at least keeping me busy and letting me get out of the house. I think I’d go mental if I had to stay inside all this time. 

I don’t know how Baz does it. 

He’s taken to standing by the window, waiting for me to show up with his delivery. It’s been four nights in a row this week. I like that I can see him there now. That I can see his face. 

About dropped my phone when he FaceTimed me last week. Didn’t want him to think he’d startled me so I tried to play it cool but fucking hell, I never expected him to be that good looking. 

He’s all high cheekbones, sea-grey eyes, full lips just this side of pouty. I didn’t get to look at him as long as I’d like. Seemed spooked he’d accidentally called me, he did, face all flushed and eyes wide. Rang off before I had a chance to get a little chatty with him. 

I can talk to people, most of the time. I’m not great with words, especially when I’m nervous, but I’m friendly. Ebb says the customers have been telling her how nice it is to have a cheerful voice coming ‘round.

I like that. I like that I’m helping to keep people fed and cheering them up a bit. Helps me feel better about all this business. 

The numbers are going up. Not here in the village, not much at least. But it’s a right mess in London, with all the illness. 

I always used to think I’d want to live in the city--so much to see, so much to do, people all around. I did my uni years in London. It was all right, always something to keep me entertained. But I knew I didn’t want to stay there. 

Too many people. Too much fuss. 

That’s why I moved to Chilham, when Penny did. We roomed together our last two years at uni and I just kind of tagged along when she got the job at the school her mother runs. Shared a place until last year, when she moved in with Shep. He’s a good sort, even if he is American. And he’s just gone on her, so that’s all right then. They’re a good match. 

I’m getting used to living alone. I like having my flat above the studio. It gets a bit quiet but I don’t mind that. Years of living in the homes made me appreciate a spot of solitude. I can hear myself think that way. 

I’m glad to be out of London now, no question. Glad to be here, in the village, where everybody looks out for each other. Making myself useful. Keeping people’s spirits up. 

I’m a bit worried about Baz. I don’t know if he’s left his house at all, not even for groceries. He orders so much food from the pub that I think that’s all he eats. Not that Ebb can’t use the business and I appreciate the tips and all, but I think it would do him a spot of good to have some fresh food in the house. 

He seems the type to have a cup of tea and a biscuit in the morning and then run on adrenaline and resolve until the evening meal. On endless repeat. 

I should bring him something. Some eggs maybe, a bit of something green.

Nico’s not big on serving salads. Says it’s not pub fare. He’s not about to talk nutrition either, not when he’s frying up chips and making steak and kidney pie and lighting up cigarette after cigarette every chance he gets. I don’t know how he stays so skinny. Probably just full of piss and vinegar and spite.

But I’ve got an idea about what to do for Baz. 

Just need to ask the question.

* * *

**Baz**

“Another meal from The Goat I see?” Agatha is leering at me from my mobile screen.

“And what of it? I can’t very well eat curry every night.” 

“When was the last time you actually ordered a curry, Baz? For real?”

“I’m sure it was just a few days ago.” It’s been over a week since I’ve had a curry. My refrigerator is packed with leftovers from The Goat. I had sausage and bacon hotpot for breakfast this morning. 

That’s vaguely breakfast-like food. More than a leftover burger, at any rate.

“You’ve ordered from The Goat every day this week.”

“You can’t know that.” I scoff, getting just the right amount of curl to my lip. She should be able to see the sneer through the screen.

“Oh, come off it, you wanker,” she growls back, frowning now. “You’re arse over tit for him and you know it.”

“I know no such thing. I’ve no idea what you’re getting at, Wellbelove.” I can feel a flush heat up my cheeks. Fuck it, why must my face betray me like this? I drop my mobile on the sofa and pick up my plate. I’ve not had the ragu before and it smells divine. I spear a forkful and ignore Agatha’s squawk at being relegated to a view of my left elbow. 

“Give it up, Baz. I know you. Simon’s just your type, all golden skin, with that swoopy mass of curls falling over his forehead, fit as the devil.” Her voice is even more strident when she’s on speakerphone. 

“He’s not my type. I don’t have a type,” I say irritably. I take another forkful. This is a damn good ragu. I’m going to have to remember to order it again. 

“He’s fit. That’s your type.”

“Calumny, you wretch. I’m not that shallow.” 

“Will you just admit you like him? There’s nothing wrong with having a crush.”

I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me. “I don’t have a _crush_ , for Christ’s sake, Wellbelove. I’m not fifteen.”

“You may as well be, you berk. You know you’re ordering all this food just so you can see him.”

“The isolation’s getting to you. You’re delusional.”

“Not as delusional as you. I know they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach but if that’s true, you’re going about this arse backwards. You’d be the one wooing him with food, if that were the case, not force feeding yourself to catch his attention. You’ll have gained a stone or more by the end of this. I’ll have to put you in boot camp to curb your muffin top.”

“All right, Wellbelove, that’s it, you’ve gone too far.” 

“Oh, so you have gained weight then.” Blast the woman. 

“I resent the implication.”

“Pull your shirt up.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“I’d advise you to lay off the pub food and talk to the man like a fucking grown up, Baz. You’ve got his number.” 

I throw my head back on the sofa. “I can’t just call him. What the fuck would I even say?”

“Well, when a boy likes another boy . . . “

“Oh, do shut up! You’re useless, you know that.”

“Come on, Baz.” Agatha’s voice is softer now. “You know you like him. Just text him, if it’s too weird to call. Just to say hi. Start there. See what happens.” I pick up my mobile and look at her. Her pretty forehead is furrowed and she’s sporting a look of concern. It doesn’t suit her.

“Stop that. You’ll get wrinkles. The skin care regimen I suggested will be all for naught.”

“You are such a shit, Baz!” 

“Let me at least enjoy my ragu in peace for a few moments, would you?”

She sighs, blows a strand of hair off her face and frowns at me. “This conversation isn’t over.”

“It is for tonight. Now what are we watching?”

“ _Spinal Tap_.” 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’m going to have that damn _Big Bottom_ song stuck in my head for the rest of the night, you gremlin.”

“Aw, and here I thought _Lick My Love Pump_ would be your favorite. You know with those delicate Mozart and Bach influences.” She starts laughing before she can even finish her sentence. 

“You are a menace, Wellbelove, a profane and disrespectful menace.”

It’s hours later, when I finally get to bed, that I let myself think about Agatha’s words. She’s right, of course. Not that I’m going to admit it to her, when I can barely admit it to myself. 

But it’s true, no matter how hard I try to deny it. 

I think about Simon far more than I should. His deliveries are the highlight of my day. 

Fucking hell. 

  
  


* * *

**Baz**

“I’d like to order the Shepherd’s pie. No, I’ll pass on the dessert tonight, Ebb. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, love. Thanks for keeping The Goat in mind when you’re feeling peckish. I’ll have Simon ‘round there shortly.” I hear tapping in the background and then Ebb’s voice back on the line. “I’ve got the discount for you, dear.”

“Erm. Could you add it back?” Christ, I sound like a tit. 

“For Simon again, you mean?”

“Er. Yes. For Simon.”

“Lovely. I’ll get it to him, then.”

I can’t believe I didn’t even think to have a tip added on the first night I ordered. Anyone doing this job, in the middle of this situation, deserves hazard pay let alone a generous gratuity. 

I’ve made sure to have Ebb give the discount equivalent to Simon every time since. I can’t very well give it to him myself, so this way works for the best. 

I’m quite familiar with The Goat’s offerings by now. 

It’s not the pub’s food selections that keep me ordering. It’s far more complicated than that. 

My mobile pings not twenty minutes later.

_**Simon:** Food’s here! Be at the door in just a minute!_

I’m at the window watching, like I always am now. I see Simon park the car and then get out, carrying the bag in his gloved hand. He’s started to wave as he comes up the walk, which should have me shrinking back in mortification but I wave back, like the besotted fool I am. 

The doorbell rings a instant later and I lunge for the video monitor and press the button. Simon’s smiling face takes up most of the screen. It’s familiar and strangely comforting. 

I’m just hungry. That’s what this is. Primal instinct for sustenance. I’m looking forward to a good, hot meal. Something to break the monotony of curry and fish and chips. A bit of variety to my diet. That’s all this is. Nothing more. 

Which is bollocks, but that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself. 

Not that I’m literally _pining_ over the man who delivers my food. 

“Hullo! I’ll set it right down for you.”

“Thanks.”

Simon bends down, only to pop back up again almost instantly. He’s stepped back a bit so I can see he’s got his hands in his pockets and a thoughtful expression on his face, rather than his usual grin.

“Can I ask you something, Baz?”

My stomach drops and I can’t help the thrill that runs through me at his words. We’ve never done this. Had anything resembling a real conversation. Other than that completely embarrassing FaceTime incident last week which I will not dignify by calling a conversation. 

He’s never called me by my name before. 

“Yes, of course?” Too eager, far too eager. 

“Well, it’s just that . . . well, you know. . . I’ve just noticed that you’ve been ordering from The Goat a fair bit this past week?”

Fuck. How many times have I ordered? It can’t be more than two or three times. . .

It’s been every fucking day. 

Simon keeps going. “And I was . . . I was wondering how you’re set for groceries and all?”

“Groceries?”

“Yeah.”

Not quite the question I was anticipating. I was hoping for more of a “ _Do you know you’ve got a sexy voice?”_

Or a _“Can I lick your love pump?”_ Christ, where did that come from? I am beyond a disaster. 

Damn Wellbelove for making us watch _Spinal Tap_ last night. I’m now as depraved and imbecilic as Nigel Tufnel. 

I turn my focus back to Simon and away from anyone licking anything. “Ah. Groceries. Bit low on some things, I suppose.”

I’m low on practically everything. I’ve not ventured to the store in over a week. There were four other people at the minimarket when I went and it made me feel claustrophobic and unspeakably tense, even with my mask and gloves. I bought the few things that were already in my basket and made a run for it. 

Disinfected it all and took a long, blisteringly hot shower. Haven’t gone since. 

“So,” Simon rubs his neck and glances away from the monitor as he continues speaking. “Ebb gets deliveries every week and we’ve been getting some extras from the farmers in the area. To try to give them a bit of business, yeah?” His eyes return to the camera. “But it’s hard to predict how many orders are going to go out, you know, how much of it Nico’s going to use?”

I nod, forgetting for a moment that he can’t see me. I push the intercom. “Understandable.” 

“So, well, here’s the thing, I take some of the extra home and she and Nico do too. But I eat half my meals at the pub so it’s not like I need that much at home?”

I’m not sure where he’s going with this. 

“So I was, well, uh . . . I was wondering if you’d like me to bring some of the extra for you?” He leans closer to the camera, face earnest, eyes wide. “Not that I don’t want you to keep ordering from The Goat, Christ, Ebb can use the business. But just so you’ve got . . . you know . . . so I know you’ve got something.”

I’m speechless. This man, this devastatingly handsome man, is _worried about me_. He’s standing there, outside my door, and worrying if I’m getting enough to eat, even though my refrigerator is near bursting with leftover bruschetta and soggy chips. 

And while it should annoy me and be utterly humiliating, to be thought of as that fucking helpless, it’s somehow wildly endearing.

 _He’s been thinking about me_ is the only coherent thought swirling in my brain. 

_He’s been thinking about me, too._

I haven’t answered him. He’s offering to do something exceedingly kind. I have to say something.

“Simon, that’s awfully kind of you. I don’t know quite what to say.” Which is absolutely true.

He leans even closer to the monitor, the grin back on his face. “How about this then--I’ll call you when we’re closing up and you can see what’s left and take your pick?” 

He has a mole on his left cheek that I’d like to kiss.

“Call me?” It comes out at a higher pitch than I’d intended. 

“Yeah. I’ll FaceTime you, so you can have a look and then I can drop it off on my way home.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you, Simon.” I can’t stop saying his name. “Surely, you’d rather head home than do another food run.” 

Why am I like this? Why do I have to find reasons for him not to? 

His grin gets impossibly wider, eyes crinkling, nose doing a little wrinkle thing that takes my breath away. 

“Nah. You’re on my way home. I live above the studio, near the square.”

Wellbelove said he runs a martial arts place. She took some weapons class there last year. As if skills with nunchucks aren’t unnerving on their own, the very thought of Wellbelove wielding them is downright terrifying. She’s enough of a menace with her bare hands.

The thought of Simon smashing boards with his bare hands or wielding an aikido sword is a far more enticing proposition. 

Drops of sweat tracing their way down his neck, pooling in the dip of his collarbones. 

“So, what do you think? Call you tonight when I’m off work?” His voice interrupts my wanton train of thought. 

“Yes, yes, that’d be lovely, yes.” I sound like an insipid prat. How is it that I turn into a blithering idiot every time I speak to him? 

I’m good with words. It’s what I do. It’s years of theatre and debate, scholarly seminar monologues, lectures given to bored, pimply adolescents. Talking is my job, for Christ’s sake. 

Simon nods at me on the video screen. “Right then, probably be around eight.”

“I’ll be here.”

“All right, then.” And he’s gone.

I don’t wait for him to wave this time.  
  
I do it first. 

His smile when he waves back in incandescent, even at this distance. 

* * *

**Simon**

“You should take some eggs this time. Have a good fry up for breakfast tomorrow.” I forage through the remnants from today, turning my phone around so Baz can look over the stash too. 

I’m getting eggs from the farm tomorrow so these are fair game. I don’t know why he doesn’t take more eggs. I could eat eggs every day. 

The remnants of spinach and lettuce are starting to get a bit limp. Too limp for Nico to serve, but not too far gone for us to take home. “You could take a bit of this cheddar and spinach and make a nice omelette for yourself.”

“I always undercook or overcook my eggs,” Baz says, his voice a bit muffled, seeing as I’ve got him facing away from me. 

“I’ll have to have you over for a good fry up when this is all over, then.” It’s only after I say it that I realize what I’ve done.

I’ve basically asked him on a date. To my place. For breakfast. 

Not as if I haven’t been thinking of these food nights as dates, if I’m going to be honest. 

Mondays and Fridays. Eight o’clock. Going through the remnants at The Goat with Baz. It’s only the third time we’ve done this but it feels like part of my routine now. Comfortable and familiar, like the trips to his house three or four times a week to deliver food. 

The way we video chat now, have real conversations, instead of just stilted awkwardness, when I drop off the kitchen leavings Nico’s deemed not up to snuff for his customers. 

When I’m done with work and have the time to sit on his doorstep and talk. 

I know how stressed he is about his students. How he doesn’t think he’s doing enough to help them prep for their exams. Feels he’s not doing his job well enough with this e-learning. 

He’s worrying about his family in Hampshire, too. 

He’s got three younger sisters and a little brother. All home from school now, of course. Baz may complain that he’s glad he’s here and not there--with three hormonal adolescent girls and a rambunctious little brother who’s likely chafing at having to stay at home--but I can tell he misses them.  
  
His voice changes when he talks about them. It gets, well, it gets softer and I don’t know _rounder_ , like there’s a laugh buried under his words, waiting to burst out. 

It sounds different now, too, when he answers me. Not round but smoother, more like plush velvet. Rich and low. “I’d like that, Simon.”

I’d been holding my breath, without meaning to, waiting to see what he’d say. There’s a buzz going through me, like an electrical current running from the phone to my arm, all the way to my head. Almost makes me feel dizzy. 

Maybe that’s from holding my breath. 

All I know is that I think Baz said _yes_. 

* * *

Baz

I’m sitting on the floor, leaning back against my front door, smiling down at my mobile. Simon’s animated, telling me a story about a birthday party disaster at his studio and I’m drinking in the sight of him. 

He’s sitting on my doorstep, leaning against my front door, and I’m imagining how it would feel to have the heat of his back against mine, how it would feel to lean into him. 

Into his arms. 

It’s long past sunset. Simon’s bathed in the yellow glow of my porch light, the shadows flickering across his face as he tilts his head, raises his brows, darts his tongue out to lick his lips. There’s a red scarf tucked around his neck and every time he laughs he buries his chin in its folds.

A gust of wind shifts his curls and he hunches his shoulders up closer to his ears.

I should let him go. He’s unquestionably freezing out there. He can just as well FaceTime me from his home as he can from my front stoop. 

Except we don’t do that, do we? 

We’ve never texted or called when it’s not food delivery related. 

Simon does use FaceTime when he drops off my orders now, instead of texting. I stopped even bothering with the intercom. No point to it if he’s smiling up at me from my mobile. 

We video chat the nights he “grocery shops” from Ebb’s leftovers for me. I see more of The Goat’s kitchen and Nico’s scowling face than Simon on those calls. 

And then we sit like this, when he drops the food off, the eggs and wilted vegetables in a bag by his feet. I’ll bring them in when he leaves. 

I should tell him to go home. The tips of his ears have gone red from the cold.

There’s no reason we can’t do this from the comfort of our respective sofas. But that would mean it’s somehow something more than just conversation. Something more meaningful. 

More intimate. 

I think he meant what he said the other night. About getting together when this is all over. 

It’s what keeps me going some days. 

No one knows how long we’re going to be trapped like this. The projections are now well into May or even June. 

I’d give anything to be able to open the door, for the chance to see him in person for even a moment. 

Six feet apart. Socially distant. 

But not emotionally. 

Leave it to me to meet the man of my dreams in the middle of a pandemic, when I can’t even talk to him face to face, let alone touch him. 

I place my finger on my mobile screen, gently trace the line of Simon’s jaw, stroke the curls that tumble over his forehead. I imagine my hand smoothing them back, my fingers sinking into the springy mass of them, brushing against the velvet burr of his undercut. 

Fuck, I can’t do this anymore. Know that he’s less than a foot away from me when it may as well be miles. 

What if I open the door? If I take one of the masks I have stored for my now nonexistent trips to the store and put it on. Slide gloves on my hands, undo the lock and throw the door wide. 

I can’t do this to myself, let myself imagine that kind of scenario. I should tell Simon to go home, warm up a bit, make himself a cup of tea. 

And call me. 

He finishes his story with a laugh at his own expense (I love his laugh) (it’s brightness and sunshine and crisp frosty mornings) (fuck, I’m so gone for him).

“Simon, you must be freezing.”

He shrugs, the movement so familiar now. “I’m fine. It’s not so bad.” His head tilts to the side as he flashes me that grin of his. “I tend to run hot.”

Don’t I know it. 

“You should get home, warm up.”

The smile fades, a crease forming between his eyebrows as he glances down. “I suppose it’s late. Shouldn’t keep you chattering, you’ve probably got grading to do.”

I swallow, trying to work some moisture into my suddenly dry mouth. “Go on home, Simon.”

_Say it, Pitch._

“And call me when you get settled.”

His head shoots up instantly. “You’re sure?”

I nod. “Yeah. There’s no point to you sitting out in the cold. Call me when you get home.” I swallow again. “If you want, that is.”

“Oh, I most definitely want.” He’s up on his feet now. 

So am I. 

Simon’s mobile shifts and tilts, his face disappearing and a view of my front door filling the screen. 

He’s resting his hand against my door, palm pressed flat against the wood.

I fumble to switch my camera mode, slide my free hand up to mirror his, press it flat against the door, fingers splayed out to match his. 

I imagine it’s smooth skin I’m feeling, instead of the roughness of the wood. Warm fingers sliding between my own. 

Simon’s voice is husky and low when he speaks. “I’ll call you as soon as I get in.”

* * *

**Baz**

“You stood me up!” Agatha’s voice is all outraged indignation. “We were supposed to watch _Bride and Prejudice_ and you ghosted me, you prick”

Guilty as charged. Not that it was intentional.

Not completely intentional. Simon rang me when he got home and I lost track of time. It’s easy to do that, when I talk to him on the phone now. 

One thing led to another and before I knew it we were watching his favorite episode of _The Great British Baking Show_ together and then we had to watch the next one, and the one after that, and by the time I rang off it was almost ten o’clock. Too late to do more than send Agatha an apologetic text and hope she was already asleep. 

She wasn’t asleep. My mobile rang a moment later and now I’m bracing myself for one of her epic rants. 

“I picked that one just for you, you twat! So I wouldn’t have to listen to you bitch about _another bloody action film, another bloody sports movie_. Christ, Baz, if you’re tired of doing movie nights with me just tell me.”

“I’m not tired of movie nights with you. They are one of the few things keeping me sane through this nightmare.” 

“I was worried about you, you stupid shit.” Her voice shifts mid sentence, a waver breaking through the indignation.

Fuck. “Agatha. I'm sorry.”

“You should be. You let me go to voicemail, arsehole.” Her voice is still tight, the words coming out thick and muffled.

“Truly, I’m fine.” 

I can hear her take a few breaths over the line. In. Out. And then the blast of air that always comes when she blows the hair off her face. 

“Listen, I was just distracted, that’s all. Lost track of time. Won’t happen again.”

“Baz, I will literally murder you if you ghosted me for an extended wanking session!” And she’s back to her usual calumny. 

She probably could murder me with those nunchucks of hers. “I did not ghost you for a wank, trust me.” 

She huffs. “Fine. Apology accepted.”

“So are we on for _Bride and Prejudice_ tomorrow night?”

She makes a noise that sounds disturbingly like “Hrmph.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“Only because I’m being exceedingly forgiving. I still think you’re a prick for not answering my texts. And my call.”

“I can accept that.”

“You’re being uncharacteristically contrite. Are you sure you’re all right, Baz?” 

“I’m fine.”

She huffs again. “I swear you did have a wank. You’re never this agreeable when you’re in the wrong.” 

“I told you, I didn’t have a wank.” She’s going to make me wish I had if she keeps on about it like this. 

“Then what the hell were you doing? Don’t tell me you took a three hour bath, I’m not having it.”

“I was on the line with someone.”

“Is everyone ok at home?”

“Yes, they’re fine.” 

“You can’t expect me to believe you were on the line with Malcom for three hours, you twat. Even if you talked to each one of the gremlins individually.” Her voice shifts to a saccharine sing song. “Who were you talking to, Bazzy?”

I may as well tell her. She’ll be on me all night if I don’t. Agatha is persistent. Dogged. Undetterable. So fucking annoying. 

“Fine. I was talking to Simon.”

“Ooh! You jammy bastard, you! Finally talking to the boy you’ve been pining over.”

“I’ve not been pining.”

I’ve most definitely been pining.

“What’d you talk about?”

“Honestly, Agatha. I’m not doing this. I’m not fifteen and there is no way I’m going to sit on the phone with you to gush about a boy.”

I spend the next fifteen minutes giving her the entire history of what I now think of as our food date nights, the doorstep conversations, and how I just spent almost three hours talking to this lovely, brilliant man. 

“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me any of this, you secretive little shit.”

“There wasn’t anything to tell! _‘I chatted with the delivery man’_ isn’t that scintillating of a conversational topic, Wellbelove.”

“It is if you’re pining over him. And you’re doing more than chatting. You’re practically dating.”

It’s my turn to huff. “We are not _practically dating_. We’ve never even met face to face!”

“So do something about that.”

“What do you seriously expect me to do in the middle of a global pandemic?”

“You could start by opening the fucking door next time he comes by to drop food off.” 

“It’s called social distancing for a reason.”

“Did you or did you not go to the store a few weeks ago? Before your gallant knight in mask and gloves started wooing you with limp asparagus and wilted spinach?”

“He doesn’t wear a mask for deliveries.” 

“Fine, he wears his scarf wrapped around his face, can you give the semantics a rest for a minute, you pedantic twit?”

“Fine. What’s your point?”

“My point is we’re what? A month into this now? You’ve been a fucking hermit all that time, as expected, other than your meagre store outings. And he’s not had contact with anyone but Ebb and Nico at The Goat.”

“I’m not following.”

“Baz. You were probably in closer proximity to the cashier at the minimarket than you would be if you popped your head out the door to say hi to Simon.”

“I’ll tell you it wasn’t just the cashier. I don’t know what part of _six feet of distance_ people can’t understand. There were four people in that market and there is no possible way--”

“Oh my fucking god, Baz, would you give it a rest with the minimarket?”

“I would like to point out that you were the one who brought it up in the first place.” She did. It certainly wasn’t me. 

Although I have quite a few things to say about the poorly executed social distancing exhibited there. 

“I don’t care if I brought it up. Forget about the sodding minimarket and listen to me, you clot. What’s stopping you from opening the door next time he comes and just sitting across from each other? Face to face? Six bloody feet apart. With your mask on, of course, because it’s your germaphobic, paranoid self we’re talking about.”

“Look, a lot of lives would be saved if more people were germaphobes right about now.” 

A strangled sound comes through the line. “Fucking hell! Will you let me talk?”

“You’ve done nothing but talk. I can barely get a word in edgewise.”

“You’re going to be down a friend if you don’t shut up right now, Tyrannus.”

Fuck. I hate it when she does that. Uses my first name like I’m a child. 

“Fine. Rant away.” I cross my legs and I know I’m pouting, but we’re not FaceTiming so I can make whatever face I damn well choose. 

I can hear her sigh over the line. “I’m not ranting. I’m trying to help you, you awkward fuck.” I hear a rustle as she shifts position. “Just hear me out, ok?”

I catch the shift in her tone. “Fine.” 

“We have no idea when this thing is going to quiet down. It could be weeks. Could be longer. But that’s no reason to ignore your feelings. I get that it’s weird, the physical distance part of it. But people have managed long distance relationships for ages.” 

“This isn’t long distance.”

Her voice sharpens. “I wasn’t finished. Stop interrupting.” I hear more rustling and then she starts up again. “So you can keep doing what you’re doing, tiptoeing around your feelings, pining over the phone like you’re in some John Hughes film. Or you can make a declaration of interest and see where it goes. Might make for far more interesting phone conversations, if you get my meaning.” 

My cheeks heat up. I most certainly get what she means. 

“Right and what if I’m misreading all this? Then I’ll have made all of this unspeakably awkward. I’ll never be able to order from The Goat again and I’ll be back to curry and chippies.” 

“How can you be misreading this? The man worries about you getting enough vegetables and damn near froze his arse off video chatting you from your front door. And he talks about you constantly.”

I sit up. “What?” 

I can practically hear the eye roll from Wellbelove. “I’ll have you know, you aren’t the only person grilling me, Baz.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“He practically had me sign an affidavit that I wasn’t your girlfriend.” She sniffs. “As if that would even be a consideration.”

I ignore the slur and focus on the warmth pooling in my belly. _Simon asked her about me._

Fuck. What am I, twelve?

“So what’s your point, Agatha?”

“You’d have asked him out already, if it wasn’t for this quarantine. Or he’d have asked you, more likely, seeing as you’re a coward about these things and Simon seems far more self-assured.”

“Do you have any other character flaws of mine to highlight or are you quite finished?”

“Shut up. I’m trying to help you.” I can hear her finger tapping on her phone case. She does that when she’s thinking. “So seeing as things aren’t normal and he’s likely figured out you’re practically a recluse, I’d suggest you be the one to take him on a date.”

“I can’t take him on a date. We’re in the middle of a societal shutdown. No one’s going on dates.”

“Not a normal date, you knob. Order extra food from The Goat, whatever his favorite is, and when he shows up to drop it off surprise him by opening the door, wearing your sultry mask and glove combo if you must, and sit six or eight feet apart and have dinner together.” 

“That’s completely daft. How am I supposed to eat dinner with a mask on? How do I disinfect my food containers? I’ll freeze my bloody balls off if I leave the door open.”

“You’re impossible! I’ve given you the idea--you figure out the logistics. You’re both probably in the clear anyway, it’s been so long. But for Christ’s sake, stop pining and actually do something about him. Simon’s just as mad about you as you are about him, though I honestly don’t understand what he sees in you, you’re frankly not worth all this effort.” 

“All right, that’s it. I’ve had enough attacks on my character for one night. Piss off, Wellbelove.”

“Fine, you bastard. Sleep well and I’ll talk to you tomorrow..” 

“Goodnight, hag.”

“Love you, Baz.”

“Love you, Wellbelove.” I breathe in through my nose, exhale and add a “thank you.”

“You’re welcome, you tit. Just think about it, all right?”

I can’t stop thinking about it. 

It keeps me up most of the night. Saturday morning comes and I don’t even have my classes to distract me from my thoughts.

I clean the kitchen. Sort through the containers of food in my refrigerator. Run a load of laundry.

I wait until six o’clock to call Ebb. 

“I think I can manage that, love. Yes, I’ll have Simon drop it off last, since you’re on his way home.”

I’m not too keen on Agatha’s idea of a dinner date. It’s bound to be awkward and uncomfortable, staring at each other across my front doorstep, trying to find a way to eat around a mask and not look like an utter numpty whilst doing so. 

No, bad idea all around, that one. At least the idea of a full meal together. 

It’s fine. I can just send the food I ordered home with him. We can eat over FaceTime together. A virtual date. I can set the phone up across the table from me. 

I’m pacing the kitchen, eyes on the clock. What am I so fucking nervous about? This is no different from the other nights Simon’s dropped off food. 

Except it is.

Even if I don’t open the door, even if I don’t take the food from his hand this time, instead of letting him leave it on the doorstep, I’ve taken a step into the unknown. 

I suppose I could just keep all the food, let Simon think I’m a glutton for ordering two days worth of food, instead of revealing the fact that I am a besotted sap who just ordered a romantic dinner for two that we can’t even fucking share. 

My mobile buzzes.

_**Wellbelove:** Friendly reminder to OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR_

_Simon just left here should be at yours in just a bit_

_You can do this Bazzy boy_

_**Me:** I can’t. This is a stupid idea._

_**Wellbelove:** COWARD_

_**Me:** Fuck off. _

_**Wellbelove:** Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch you are a fucking tragedy. _

She’s not wrong. 

My mobile buzzes again. It’s Simon.

_**Me:** he’s here fucking hell_

_**Wellbelove:** you are a mess omg you’re not even using proper punctuation JUST FUCKING OPEN THE DOOR _

I tap the FaceTime button to see Simon’s smiling face. “Hey, I’m outside.”

He’s right in front of my door, scarf wrapped around his chin, eyes bright, curls all askew from the wind.

He’s breathtaking. 

I’m at the door. 

“I thought Ebb messed up your order tonight.” He holds up a gloved hand, two bags dangling from it. “But she said that’s what you wanted. Double portions of everything.” 

“No, she’s right. That’s what I ordered.” I pick up the mask. “I’m going to put the phone down for a sec, if that’s ok?”

A crease forms between his eyebrows. “I can just drop this off and go, if it’s not a good time, Baz. We can talk later.” There’s a questioning lilt to it.

I set my mobile down on the table face down and pick up the mask. I put it on my face, adjust the elastic so it’s not caught in my hair, and grab the gloves. “No, no. Now is good.”

All right, then. 

I open the door before I let myself think about it too much. 

I catch a glimpse of Simon’s shocked face before he yanks his scarf up so far over his nose, it’s practically obscuring his eyes. “What the fuck?” It comes out muffled by the layers.

He backs up, the bags of food swinging in his grip as he narrowly avoids tumbling down the two steps that lead up to my door. He’s on the walk, glaring at me over the top of his scarf as he stuffs his mobile in his back pocket. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I thought I’d say hi.” I am such a fucking disaster. 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Four weeks I’ve been delivering food and today you decide to defy all convention and open the bloody door?” Simon scrabbles at his jacket and then pulls out a mask. 

It takes him a bit to get it on properly, as he’s struggling to do it one-handed. It would be comical if he wasn’t still directing a baleful glare in my direction.

This was a terrible idea. It’s gone pear-shaped already and I’ve barely said a word.

This is all Wellbelove’s fault. 

Simon’s mask is crooked by the time he gets it on and he’s backed up another foot on the walkway. “Seriously, Baz, what are you doing?”

He’s dropped the glare for something more approaching concern and all I want to do is reach my hand out to smooth that crease from his forehead and I fucking can’t because he’s ten feet away from me now and I couldn’t even if he was right in front of me and fuck it all, it all comes out of me in a rush. 

“I just wanted to fucking see you, all right? Actually _see you_ , talk to you for one minute, not through a bloody screen or through an intercom, ok?” I can’t even look at him. I’ve made a huge bloody mistake and I’ve managed to freak him out as well. 

Bloody hell. 

I lean against the door frame. “Just drop the one bag and go, Simon.”

I glance up to see he’s moved forward. He’s standing just by the steps now. 

His voice is low, quiet enough that I find myself leaning forward a bit to hear him. “Why didn’t you just say so? When I rang you up. Why didn’t you just tell me that’s what you wanted to do?”

“Because I didn’t know if I’d fucking have the balls to do it until I actually did it, ok?” This is it. All my frailties and insecurities and ill-temper on full display. Fuck, Wellbelove is never going to hear the end of this. 

Simon’s on the first step. “I’d have known to put my mask on at least.”

“I’m not that fussed about it. You don’t see anyone but Ebb and Nico.”

“You’re not that fussed about it? You’ve not been to the store in weeks because you didn’t want to be around people and now you’re not fussed about it?” 

I don’t know why I ever told him about that. 

He’s on the second step now. 

“I’m not fussed about _you_ , all right?”

He’s still on the second step. “Well, I am.” Simon takes another step up. He’s an arm’s length away now. “I am so fussed about you, Baz.”

I meet his eyes. They’re so fucking fond it makes my chest feel like it’s going to cave in. An ache that starts in my throat and seeps down into my stomach and I think my knees would buckle if I didn’t have the door frame to hold me up. 

“I thought . . . well, I thought I’d order dinner for you and I’d open the door and ask you face to face but I’ve made a fucking hash of it all and it was a stupid idea and I don’t know what I was thinking--”

“Ask me what?” Simon interrupts my stream of drivel.

“Ask you to have dinner with me.” Christ, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. 

That’s it. I’ve officially gone mental thanks to the isolation. 

“As in a dinner date?” 

Fuck. This is bloody mortifying.

He's close enough that I could reach out and touch him. I could reach out and brush that tangle of curls off his face. 

I rest my forehead against the door jamb as I answer. “Yes.”

“All right, then. I’m in.”

My head whips up to stare at him. “What?” 

“I’m in. For a dinner date. For a phone date. For any kind of fucking date. Jesus, Baz, I’ve been trying to think of a way to ask you out, with all this shit going on. So, yes, ok? The answer is yes.”

And then he sits himself down on the cold cement and looks up at me. “What did you have planned?”

I sit down across from him, just inside the door. “Well, this, I suppose, just without all the mortifying bits.” 

Simon waves a hand. “You get a do-over.”

“Ok.” Christ, this is going to be just as embarrassing. I spent half the day thinking this through and I’m still a complete disaster. “So I ordered two meals from Ebb.” 

Simon lifts the bags and shakes them. “I noticed.”

“And I thought about us having dinner together but the masks just fuck the whole thing up.” I dart another look at him. “So my plan was to open the door and ask you to dinner. To share a meal together when you get home. Using FaceTime. But I wanted to ask you in person. Which is completely stupid in retrospect.”

“It’s not stupid. Unexpected, yes.” Simon shifts. It’s sure to be bloody uncomfortable on the damp cement. “But a good surprise, as far as I’m concerned.” He touches the bags again. “And kind of you to treat me to dinner.”

“I ordered the ragu.”

“It’s my favourite.”

“I know. Ebb told me.”

“You ordered the chocolate torte too.”

“That’s my favourite.”

“Such a sweet tooth, you have. I’ll bet you’re one of those that gets all the fancy syrups and whipped cream with your coffee. More dessert than drink.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“The food’s getting cold.”

“I know.”

“Baz?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s do this.” Simon tilts his head and even though the mask obscures more than half his face I know he’s smiling. I can see it in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way the mask shifts on his cheeks, the blue of his eyes so much more brilliant and piercing than it ever has been on my mobile screen. 

“All right.” I stand up and move so I’m in the middle of my doorway. Simon’s already standing across from me, an arm's breadth away. He holds out my bag of food and I reach for it with my gloved hand. As soon as I grasp it his hand moves to cover mine, warm even through the vinyl of the gloves, his fingers sliding up to gently grip my wrist. I feel a thrum run through me, from that point of contact all the way up my arm. My head’s buzzing from it.

It feels so good to have someone _touch me_. 

Simon squeezes my wrist once, then pulls away. There’s a hoarse roughness to his voice when he speaks. “I’ve wanted to do that for awhile.”

I stretch my free hand out, palm up, fingers wide. “So have I.”

He meets it halfway, the graze of his fingers tingling across my skin until they close around my wrist again. My fingers wrap around him, my hand against the flat of his wrist, each pulse of his heartbeat throbbing against my palm. 

I don’t know how long we stand like that. It could be seconds. It could be eternity. I start and end at the point of contact, my world narrowed down to the firmness of his grip and that steady thrum pulsing against me, keeping time with my own heart.

The wind picks up, tousling Simon’s hair and sends a blast of cold air slicing right through the fabric of my shirt. I shiver and Simon draws his hand ever so slowly away from mine, fingers tracing a path from my wrist to my fingertips, as light as butterfly wings but searing with the intensity of an electrical current.

I’d probably combust if we didn’t have gloves on, from the touch of his skin on mine alone. 

“You’re freezing, Baz. You don’t even have a coat on.” 

I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

  
  


**Simon**

I can see him shivering. I’ve got my coat on and I’m shaking too, but it’s not from the cold. 

Fuck. It felt like something clicked into place when I touched him, like a circuit was completed, a surge of heat radiating up my arm, each fingertip lit with fire where it touched his skin. 

Well, not his actual skin, just the glove covering it, but still. Fucking hell, I’ve wanted to do this for so long.

There’s a whole list of things I want to do to Baz Pitch and hand holding is probably the tamest of them. 

Fuck. I want to run my fingers through his hair, pull him into my arms, rest my head against his shoulder. Feel his arms around my waist, thumbs sliding to tuck inside the waistband of my jeans.

Fuck. I just want to _touch him_. 

We’ve been talking for weeks. For hours at a time some nights. But this past week. Fucking hell, it’s made me _ache_ just thinking about him. 

I’d be past the hand holding stage by now, if it wasn't for this blasted virus. I’d be feeling his lips on mine, the pouty fullness of them pressing against me, opening up to the barest touch of my tongue. 

I’m going to go stark raving mad. My skin’s too tight, my face too hot from this bloody mask, the scratchiness of it making me think of stubble rasping against my skin. 

And Baz is right there. A few feet away and I can’t do anything but look at him and still feel the lingering weight of his hand in mine. 

“You should go in.” My voice is a wreck, a stupid raspy growl, like I’ve been shouting at a match for hours. “You’re cold. The food’s cold.”

His eyes look different than they do on my mobile screen. They’re grey--the grey of the deepest part of the sea on a cloudy day--but they’re a mix of dark blue and dark green now, shifting with the light, pupils wide and dark. 

I should go. I should go before I throw all caution to the wind and grab him by his shirt and pull him to me. 

I’d kiss him through that mask, if that’s all I could get of him. 

Fuck. I’m going mental. I can’t believe I’m even thinking this way. I’d never risk doing something like that, never risk him that way.

Baz hasn’t said anything. He’s just staring at me over the rim of his mask. I couldn’t look away if I tried. 

“I should go.” I should, I really should.

“I don’t want you to.”

“I’ll do something stupid if I don’t, Baz.”

“Like what?”

“Like grab you by the collar and snog you senseless.”

One eyebrow goes up and I know he’s smirking under that mask. I can tell by the way his cheeks look fuller, the way the mask shifts on his skin. “I’d not voice any complaints.”

“Fuck, Baz. You can’t just say things like that. You don’t know what it does to me.”

“Feel free to tell me.” The tosser is full on grinning now, fucking nightmare of a tease that he is. 

I close my eyes. I need to go home. 

I need to go home, I need to take a shower, I need to have a fucking wank, and I need to spend the rest of my night listening to Baz Pitch’s sultry voice talking about anything and everything. 

Talking to me. 

“I’m going home. I’m going home to take a shower. I am going to set my table, put some fucking candles on it, and heat my dinner up. And then I’m going to call you and we are going to have our first dinner date and I’ll ask to be your terrible boyfriend and you better fucking say yes.”

I know he’s still smiling. I can see it in his eyes. They’ve gone soft, the grey of the sky just after sunset. “Why my terrible boyfriend?”

“Because I sure as hell can’t be a good one if I can’t even fucking be with you.”

“You’ll just have to make up for it when this is all over.”

I stretch my hand out, palm facing him. He puts his gloved hand against mine. It’s what we used to do on his door, when we’d place our hands against the wood and I’d imagine his hand pressing against mine. 

It feels just like I imagined it. 

Palm to palm. A perfect match. 

* * *

**_Epilogue_ **

**Baz**

I don’t want to get out of bed but there’s an enticing scent in the air that makes me poke my head out from under the covers. There’s an indent in the pillow next to mine but no sign of Simon. The sheets are cold when I stretch out my hand. 

I close my eyes and give myself a moment to savour the memories of last night. 

And of waking to the sound of thunder just a few hours ago and feeling a warm arm slung across my chest, Simon’s face pressed into my neck, the heady scent of him thick and intoxicating. 

The aroma wafting into my room makes my stomach rumble. The scent of bacon is unmistakable. 

I wander into the kitchen a few minutes later, still in the t-shirt and grey joggers I borrowed from Simon last night. This is the first time I’ve spent the night at his flat. Not something either of us had planned for, but it felt right. 

It feels even more right at this moment, as I take in the sight of Simon Snow--clad in a faded t-shirt and his pants--frying up bacon and eggs. 

I make my way across the kitchen, slide my arms around his waist and rest my chin on his shoulder. “Smells divine.”

Simon runs his fingers up my forearm, that gentlest of touches sending sparks along my skin. He turns his head and nuzzles his nose into my cheek, his lips pressing a kiss along the curve of my jaw. “I remember promising you a good fry up.”

“That you did.”

“And I’d be a pretty terrible boyfriend if I didn’t keep my promises.”

“That you would.” I turn my head to brush his nose with mine. I close my eyes and slide my lips against his, savour the soft yielding that comes when he parts them for me, the heady sensation of his tongue licking into my mouth driving all other thoughts away. 

I pull back a moment later, just a breath of space between us. “But you’re _my_ terrible boyfriend,” I whisper against his lips. 

I can feel his mouth curve into a smile. “I most certainly will be if you distract me enough to burn your breakfast.”

I brush my lips to his. “Is that a challenge?”

“Only if you want it to be. But then you’d be the terrible boyfriend.”

“I think I can live with that,” and my mouth finds his again. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from the song Let My Love Open the Door by Pete Townshend


End file.
